


An Intro to Alternative Methodology

by comatoseroses



Series: An Alternative Timeline (Prequels, Sequels, and Dubious Destiny) [1]
Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:29:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comatoseroses/pseuds/comatoseroses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some first impressions don't really change between different realities. Or, how Abed Nadir met Jeff Winger, overshared, proved his value, and earned a good tip in spite of himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Intro to Alternative Methodology

**Author's Note:**

> Right, okay! I only have a moderate idea of what I'm doing, but this is going to be a little collection of one-shots set in a divergent timeline, in which Abed Nadir never enrolled at Greendale Community College, and meets people in his dad's falafel restaurant instead. Or something like that! I only know that this AU's been kicking around in my head for a few days now, but I'll work things out and tie them together as I go along. Bear with me, my brethren! 
> 
> They will probably not be in any definitive order, which will possibly be obvious on reading this. It only seemed fair to start with Abed and Jeff, though, in my defense.

Jeff Winger walks into the restaurant exactly four minutes and thirty-five seconds after Britta arrives every day for two weeks before he gets called out on it. Or for twelve days, anyway. Abed doesn’t think to start timing until after it’s happened twice, so he can only guess by a certain point. And he doesn’t really have a stopwatch, so in a technical sense, every count is a guess no matter how precise his internal timer usually is (very precise, occasionally to the point of great frustration regarding food preparation instructions in his earlier years). 

There’s a reason Abed glosses over the technicalities when he retells the story and a reason he estimates when he jots down a short screenplay about it. “Everybody was pretty sure it was the exact same amount of time each time but nobody can prove it” doesn’t appeal to the cinematic sense. “Exactly four minutes and thirty-five seconds”, though, has a deliberation to it. Not so short that he’d clearly have been right on Britta’s heels all the way to the building, not so early that it looks like a creepy murderer who has nothing else to do with his life, and not so late that it looks like he and Britta have incompatible schedule habits. (The screenplay version, in which Jeff explains this reasoning in full detail, is really the optimal one.)

Jeff Winger walks into the restaurant for the first time roughly some minutes after Britta’s been seated and left with a menu (she’s out of Abed’s serving area, today. It happens, but it’s cool. She eats pretty slowly, so he’ll get a chance to at least say hi at some point). Jeff Winger is wearing jeans, sneakers, and a well-fitted grey silk shirt. He only glances up from his phone twice all the way from the door to the table: once to ensure that Britta Perry is, in fact, at a table in the establishment, and once to point out to the host the exact table he will be eating at- back to the wall, with a clear view of her, but just out of eavesdropping range. Which is kind of hard to understand, because when Abed hands him a menu and a silverware package, he can clearly see that this man is only opening, closing, and reopening his email app without getting anything new. Jeff Winger’s hair is styled to Ryan Seacrest perfected levels and improved upon, and he makes two minor adjustments in his spoon reflection before considering what to order.

From every fiber and pore of his being, Jeff Winger oozes confidence and half-tapped development from a callous, conniving son of a bitch into a compassionate, conniving son of a bitch. The character arc he’d be given on a television show is practically mapped out by every painstaking, deliberate effort to look nonchalantly put together. His behavior is as far from social as it can get, but even Abed doesn’t have trouble reading the fact that he’s charming as all hell. Matthew McConaughey’s accent charming. Ferris Bueller charming. Hawkeye charming. He might as well have Leading Man tattooed across his forehead and stitched into the back of all his jackets. 

Abed falls a little bit in love, with all the swiftness and subtlety of a Rocky training montage. He considers this immediately upon its happening. Furrows his forehead, tilts his head a little to the left. Whether it’s a sign of something interesting and broad-scoping looming in the future or just a sign of how much he loves Ferris Bueller is hard to parse. Either way, it isn’t interfering with his life right now, excepting that the guy he’s contemplating is staring at him with a raised eyebrow now. Abed blinks and straightens himself back out before his dad supernaturally senses that he had a mild freeze-up instead of performing as an adequate part-time waiter and ushers him towards the back office to organize invoices.

Again. He’s done the invoices alphabetically, reverse alphabetically, dated oldest to newest, then newest to oldest, and organized the first letters of company names to spell out fictional character names, which he had to reorganize into one of the other four options because nobody else could understand it. The invoices can’t get more ordered than they are.

The customer raises his other eyebrow. He’s probably trying to hint at something.

“Do your eyebrows mean you’re amused or annoyed right now?” Is the first thing Abed asks, just to get it out of the way. “I’m not asking because I’m worried about getting a tip. I don’t usually get one since people don’t like me. They think I’m annoying, or they meet my dad and figure out that he’s my dad and don’t like him because he’s so angry? Not terrorist angry, just kind of an angry energy, like he’s mad at my mom for leaving him, even though she left because he was angry and he was mad because she’s American. So they decide they don’t like me either and it’s easier to just not tip me than to argue with my dad about something. Which is kind of fair. I’d probably do the same thing if I argued with him and he had another kid. Oh, and I’m Abed Nadir. I’ll be your server today.”

His customer’s eyebrows have gone between up, down, furrowed, and normalized in the time Abed’s been talking, and he only replies once he’s stared at Abed for another four seconds, like he’s waiting to see if there’s something else Abed plans to mention. It could be shock, though, or awkwardness. To his customer’s credit, he doesn’t start yelling, and he never interrupted, so even if he’s not quite as swift as Britta was to make a long tangent about angry fathers and tips into a conversation, it’s a positive sign. 

“Jeff Winger. Nice to know you and meet you, Abed… in that order. And speaking of orders,” which is about as smooth a segue as someone can hope for in the situation at hand, “I’ll take a side salad and a bottle of water. No ice.” 

“Okay. What do you want the side salad on the side of?”

“Another salad.” Jeff breaks eye contact to crane his neck, peering around Abed to make sure Britta hasn’t left yet even while he’s deftly closing his menu and sticking it somewhere in Abed’s general waist area to be taken. He leans back before he gets caught and resumes posturing himself as casually as possible. 

Abed finds it in himself to be disappointed at the lack of a Friends reference, side salad-wise. He’s willing to bet that if Jeff Winger is anybody from that cast of characters, he really is a Rachel Greene. On the other hand, Jeff’s clearly interested in looking at Britta, so it wouldn’t have really fit the scene. Maybe he’s the leading man and Britta’s his love interest. That could make Abed a shoe-in for turning into someone’s lovable side character, unrequited romantic feelings and everything. He doesn’t think he’d mind that too much in the long run, so he shrugs it off. Britta’s pretty great. She’s nonconformist by choice, which is usually a great match for leading men types. They have chemistry that starts out with friction instead of natural compatibility, and that’s just more interesting to watch. 

“Two side salads and a water bottle. That shouldn’t be more than a five-minute wait. If the owner comes out to make sure you’re really just getting salads and water, it’ll probably be more like fifteen. He’s pretty insistent about the falafel part of running a falafel-focused restaurant.”

Jeff’s mouth curves upwards a little, against all odds. Abed amends his inner running commentary to include a little bit of Zach Braff in the mix. “Don’t worry. I’m a lawyer, so I’m pretty sure I can shave that back down to five.”

“Ooh, he doesn’t like lawyers.” It’s not a warning. It’s not particularly even a realization. It’s simply an acknowledgement of the fact that his dad doesn’t like lawyers, so watching him argue with one over salad has some entertainment value. Abed can’t lie to himself about it.

“Yeah, well nobody likes lawyers. Not even _lawyers_ like lawyers.” That’s such a cool way to put his world perspective. Embittered and a little self-loathing. If Abed’s many fictional frames of reference are anything to go by. Jeff inclines his head a little and seems more noticeably pleased than not. “I _do_ , however, like eating whatever the hell I choose to eat. Just put in the order and let me handle the rest, alright?”

“Yep. If you still wanna look like you’re texting, maybe try playing a game. Staring at your phone is only half an effort. It’s important to commit to realism when you want to look realistic.” 

Knowing Jeff (in so many words), he probably has some kind of witty retort or complaint or something quick at hand in response to that. But Abed’s already turning to head back to the kitchen, so if there is one, he doesn’t catch it. 

Britta smiles and waves. She’s got grease on one corner of her mouth. Abed waves back and plans to tell her about it before she leaves. 

In the end, Jeff Winger does not quite manage to avoid an argument with the proprietor of the fine establishment he’s opted to dine in. Abed wishes he could have spared him the lack of headway or compromise, but there’s not much to do about it. Challenges are important for character-building, at least, so it isn’t completely useless in the general karmic sense. Anyway, it gives him the chance to check in with his other tables like he’s supposed to. His father tells him firmly that his customer’s order has been changed to one special of the day, one side salad, and a diet cola, all of which have been paid for in advance, and he adjusts his delivery accordingly. 

It would take a lot more than a little bit of instant love to make him try the argument for himself. 

Britta is no longer at her table and Jeff has significantly deflated since last Abed saw him. Just a little bit of destiny in the way there, he guesses. More challenges. It should work out eventually. He sets the plates down with all the practiced ease of someone who grew up in a restaurant, as one would expect of someone who grew up in a restaurant, and notices that Jeff’s still opening and closing his email for no particular reason. 

Jeff, for his part, sighs. His face is sort of pinched-looking, like he might have just gotten punched in the stomach. That happens a lot after people have met Abed’s father. Abed considers patting him on the head, and ultimately decides against it. He rests his chin on one hand and idly prods his salad with a fork.

“Starting to understand your whole opening spiel there,” he says. 

“You did better than most people. He let you stay in the restaurant and he still gave you one of your salads. Looks like your experience as a lawyer came in handy.”

“Yyyeah. Sure.” There’s a touch of something deeper there. A skepticism. Regret. A compelling origin story. Or maybe that’s still just annoyance. “Do you guys do doggy bags? I think I lost my appetite around the time I started losing ground in that debate. I’d leave it here, but I’m already all paid up.”

“Yeah, I can get you some containers. Anything else?” 

Jeff glances over to the table Britta was sitting at. Back up to Abed. Back to the table. “So that girl who waved at you.”

“You mean Britta?”

“Right, right! Britta!” Jeff is smiling, animated, and has obviously never actually heard her name before just now, even though he’s trying to pretend that it only slipped his mind. “I’ve seen her around before. She in here a lot?”

“Every day. Well, every day except for every other Saturday. That’s when she volunteers at the animal shelter three blocks from here. And she really only eats lunch on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, because of her class schedule. The rest of the time she doesn’t get here until about seven thirty because she has to work and sometimes she gets caught up calling her brothers, so she’ll just get a dessert or something to go. I was kind of hoping to say hi before she left, but you and my dad distracted me. She has a Spanish test tomorrow, so she doesn’t have a lot of time to wait around here right now after she gets done eating.” Abed caps it off with a shrug. He can understand hectic schedules. It’s supposed to be a college staple. 

Jeff is staring at him again, but his eyebrows seem to be fully under control this time. He gets out his wallet, drops some money on the table, stands, and claps Abed on the shoulder, in that order.

“Abed, I see your value now.”

And just like that, he’s whisking back out the front door, sans food and sans twenty-percent tip. Abed stares after him and tries to imagine an appropriate movie score for the moment, because it feels unusually epic. Like something life-changing just got set into motion around him, even though all he really did was wait a table and watch his dad argue with a leading man for another series.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”


End file.
